


Tales of Azeroth: Waiting For Rot-Tongue

by Zaalbeth



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood Elves, Comedy, Forsaken, Gen, Horde, Horde politics, Humans, Kalimdor, Orcs, Pre-Cataclysm, Trolls, tauren - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaalbeth/pseuds/Zaalbeth
Summary: On behalf of the noble kingdom of Quel'thalas, you are hereby invited to join representatives of the honoured allies of the sin’dorei as we engage in trade negotiations. If for some unimaginable reason it should become necessary for you to speak, you may address me as “Your Excellency”.True, the setting is not quite of the standard one has grown accustomed to, nor, it must be admitted, is the company of the calibre one usually expects from diplomatic envoys.But diplomats can’t be choosers. The Magisterium have, in their great wisdom, decided that we should wait, in the middle of this lovely grassland, on this charming summer’s day, for the arrival of our esteemed counterparts. And so wait we shall.--Bound together by common enemies, mutual benefits, and most importantly a lack of any better alternatives, the disparate races of the Horde have had little choice but to learn to work together. But that doesn't mean they have to like it.





	Tales of Azeroth: Waiting For Rot-Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in February 2017, due to illness this piece was never finalised or posted until now, almost a year later. I still don't feel it's 100% finished, but since my health is yet to improve, in the meanwhile I thought it was high time I posted it.
> 
> Standard lore disclaimer: This is my own take on the Warcraft universe, and should not be expected to hold too rigorously to canon ;)

The hot Kalimdor sun beat down upon the grasslands, and the blood elf politely suppressed a bored yawn. The Forsaken was late.

The envoys had been waiting since early morning in the stifling summer heat for the Undercity representative to arrive. The air was still and the occasional breeze did little to relieve the discomfort of the hot summer’s day. The Silvermoon envoy sighed.

In the dappled shade of a lone tree, the Thunder Bluff envoy lounged by the side of the road, her head resting upon her arms, calmly surveying the land. The Echo Isles representative squatted in the dirt of the track, his eyes squinting in the midday sun. Alone of the four, the Orgrimmar envoy stood, her heavy armour shining blindingly in the bright sunlight. Apparently even orc diplomats are born with an axe in their hand, thought the elf tartly.

It had been a long journey from Thunder Bluff, where the blood elf had been negotiating with the tribal leaders when he received the summons. He and the tauren had travelled together: she had been recalled from leave in her homeland especially for the occasion. A delightfully loquacious young lady, she had enjoyed regaling the elf with tales of her family, her children, her cousins, her nieces and nephews, her grandmothers, her grandfathers, her great-grandparents, and one taunka great-cousin who had come to visit last winter. The blood elf took a moment to appreciate anew the restful silence that currently reigned.

It was soon broken. “Somet’ing ain’t right, mon,” opined the troll for the third time in the last few minutes, shaking his head. The blood elf sighed discreetly and took a moment to take firm control of his tongue. “Thusly have you wisely informed us on two occasions already, Master Troll. Perhaps this time you have a suggestion for how we might therefore proceed? Or shall we continue to await our esteemed Forsaken colleague in the warmth of this charming summer’s day?”

The troll slowly turned his squinting gaze toward the blood elf. The blood elf gazed back, his posture elegant and upright, his face neutral. The troll blinked lazily, and resumed his vigil on the track. From where the troll squatted in the dirt, the road wound on north across the land for at least a mile, before it rounded a small hill and was hidden from view. The troll fixed his squinting gaze once more upon the point where the road disappeared, ignoring the sun shining in his eyes.

The blood elf waited pertly for several moments further, then with a discreet twitch of his facial muscles resumed his previous posture, his head resting elegantly on his hand, his features composed, his back turned as much as possible to block out the bright sun burning overhead.

“Isn’t the peacebloom beautiful this time of year?” spoke the tauren suddenly, as she reclined in the shade of the solitary tree. She alone of the group appeared to actually be _enjoying_ the delay. “The way it sways and shimmers… like a golden haze upon the land. And the fragrance, oh…” she trailed off, apparently lost in wonder. “Many are the blessings of the Earth Mother,” she said earnestly, and let out a contented sigh.

No-one replied. The blood elf eyed her discreetly from his seat on the opposite side of the road. The tauren’s brawny form was all but concealed in the long grass in which she lay, but still her musky scent filled his nostrils. He wondered if there was a polite way to move his seat any further from the others, but decided against it. He would endure.

The summons had come two days ago, as he was deep in negotiations regarding trade of mana thistle and sweet grass. Normally such matters would be handled in Orgrimmar, the capital of the Horde and customary gathering place of the honoured allies of the sin’dorei. But the chieftain involved had demanded this be settled in his own territory, the tauren city of Thunder Bluff. The blood elf wondered not for the first time how the tauren would respond to being asked to travel all the way to Silvermoon every time they needed advice or instruction in the magical arts.

The Forsaken envoy at whose pleasure the company currently waited was a charming fellow by the name of Rot-Tongue. Formerly a denizen of some quaint village in the Eastern Kingdoms - the blood elf never could remember all those delightful human place names - the Forsaken had since removed to the glowing canals of the Undercity, where he performed some apparently significant civil function. A representative could simply have been sent from Orgrimmar, but the Council of the Dark Lady had, in their unquestionable wisdom, decided that Rot-Tongue was the man for the job.

Yet, for whatever reason, Rot-Tongue had still not appeared. The orc had been there already when the blood elf had arrived, allowing him a brief respite while his travelling companion introduced herself - and the nearest dozen or so of her kin - to the armoured envoy. The troll had joined them shortly afterwards, although oddly the elf couldn't recall seeing him arrive. But hours later, and Rot-Tongue was still nowhere to be found.

And so they waited.

 

The day wore on. The high sun began to dip from its zenith, moving lazily and ponderously down toward the west. If the Forsaken was not there by nightfall, the group would have no choice but to begin the negotiations without him. Perhaps at some quaint tavern or inn nearby, where the elf could find a glass of something cold to drink, and a real bed to sleep in afterwards. But it was summer, and it would be many long hours before the day could be said to be coming to an end. The diplomats had been commanded to await all five members, and so wait they would.

The heavy axe strung across the orc’s back glinted in the sun as she shifted, the straps of her armour creaking quietly as she moved. The blood elf turned his attention to the orc, still standing in the same spot after all these hours, and wondered how hot it must be inside the plate armour. After the first hour she had removed her horned helm, but apparently only in order to enjoy the feeling of the sun on her face. The blood elf suppressed another sigh. At least the armour kept the smell in. The reek of orc sweat was a perpetual fragrance to the city where he was posted, and the trip to the flower stall for fresh kingsblood had become a daily chore.

He had decorated his cramped quarters as well as might be given the pitiable resources at hand. Silks of bright red and gold adorned the walls, and a few pieces of elegant furniture were positioned thoughtfully around the main chamber, but there was little room for ornament. He sighed again, remembering his home in Silvermoon, to which he all too infrequently found the opportunity to return.

His people may have been Azeroth’s preeminent masters of the arcane, but the elf was no mage. His talents in the arcane arts had been eagerly encouraged by his parents, but tested in his youth and quickly found wanting. No matter. Not every sin’dorei was meant to be an arcanist. There were other professions to master, and he had found his: the subtle art of diplomacy. Few among his brethren had the tact or the self-restraint to entreat with the quarrelsome orcs, the mooncalf tauren, or the distrustful trolls. Even the taciturn Forsaken, the closest in many ways to the noble sin’dorei, were tiresome to parley with, their stubborn and bloody-minded insistence on getting their own way in all things lamentably borne out by their limitless patience. Negotiations with the Undercity could take weeks, the Forsaken simply sitting, waiting, staring, not even breathing or blinking their eyes, for hours and days on end, until the elves relented out of sheer boredom and conceded to their petty and unimportant demands.

Rot-Tongue was better than most. One of the livelier Forsaken, he had embraced his second chance at life and even taken a new name for himself, although not the most pleasant. The blood elf shuddered. At least he hadn’t been posted to the Undercity.

But diplomats couldn’t be choosers. The Magisterium in their great wisdom had decided that he should wait in the road, on this charming summer’s day, in the middle of this lovely grassland, with his esteemed counterparts. And so wait he would.

 

For a moment, the searing heat on the top of his head abated, and the blood elf looked up. A thin wisp of cloud had passed across the sun, shielding the land below from its burning gaze. From the west further tendrils of cloud were streaming, promising some respite at last from the constant heat beating down upon the odd party.

For the first time since he had placed the silken seat at a polite yet minimally fragrant distance from the others, the blood elf leaned back and sighed, the first sigh that day that was born not of boredom or frustration, but of relaxation.

 

Bright banners of red and gold. The noble emblem of the sin’dorei shining overhead, beneath the enchanted spires of Silvermoon. The crowd cheering in neat, well-organised lines. The Magistrix unable to restrain a small smile of approval as she handed him his sash.

Upon the podium, he bowed elegantly before her magnificence, and the crowd broke into fresh cheers, toasting the kingdom of Quel’Thalas and its newest Magister. At the front of the crowd, their heads bowed in grudging respect, stood envoys from the other races of the Horde, once his peers, now forced to acknowledge his superior wisdom in all things. The tauren, the trolls, the orcs and the Forsaken, all bowed down before him, humbled before the glory of the sin’dorei and their magnificent leaders.

As he basked in the glow of the crowd’s admiration, something caught his eye. Down in the crowd, someone was waving. He looked, and saw a male Forsaken, his arms raised in greeting. Or was it in warning? He was trying to say something, but his voice was lost amid the cheers of the crowd, as they jostled and cried out for the elf’s blood. Robed arms grabbed him and he was pulled roughly from the stage, his fine sash falling to the ground, trodden into the crude dirt track. The Forsaken was running towards him, his arms waving. As he drew closer, the blood elf realised he recognised the man. Rot-Tongue. A memory tugged at his mind. Then the arms yanked him from his feet and he was falling, up, up, up.

 

He awoke with a start. The day had cooled and darkened, the setting sun lost amid a thick clutch of clouds rising from the west. But more than the heat, or the failing light, his attention was drawn to the two large forms standing either side of him, their rough hands cruelly gripping his arms. He blinked, and looked up.

A small army of dark-clad forms stood before him, straddling the road. The tauren stood across from the elf, two tall orcs holding her in place. She glared across at him and he met her eyes silently. Bandits.

The orc envoy knelt in the centre of the encircled group, her arms behind her back; several of the largest orcs stood over her, their weapons drawn. Directly behind her stood a particularly ugly, scarred orc, with what looked like a fresh welt across his cheek. A fire smouldered in his eyes, and he held his fist bunched tight in his captive’s short, dark hair. Behind the group the blood elf noticed a number of dark shapes sprawled in the grass. The troll was presumably among them.

In front of the kneeling captive stood a strange figure, taller than the others but less muscular. Dark robes flapped around him in place of the leather armour worn by the others, and a palpable aura of malevolence emanated from him. With a start, the blood elf realised he was staring right at him.

“Glad you could join us,” said the human, with a sickly smile.

 

The blood elf quickly assessed the situation, his trained negotiator’s instincts moving smoothly into action. No need to panic. It was a mistake to think of resisting; clearly the orc had already tried that, and look what it had gotten her. No, they were not warriors: they were diplomats. This situation would be solved with diplomacy. Before his captor had the chance to say anything else, the blood elf straightened and cleared his throat.

“On behalf of the noble kingdom of Quel’Thalas, I submit myself as your hostage,” the blood elf said correctly, but was halted in an elegant bow by the restraining arms of the ruffians at his sides. He straightened awkwardly, and continued. “The Magisterium will be quite happy to pay any ransom within reason,” he explained, equitably. “…provided I am returned unharmed,” he quickly added.

The man stared, and for a moment there was silence. Clearly their captors had expected a struggle: it was good he had been able to avoid any further unpleasantness. With any luck the matter would soon be settled, and they would be able to repair to a tavern and wash away the tribulations of this frightful day.

Without warning the man burst suddenly into loud, cruel laughter. His men followed suit with a cacophony of brutish guffaws.

“Your _noble_ kingdom,” spoke the man, his voice dripping with disdain, and the laughter of his men quickly died out, “is who sent us here to _kill_ you!” He burst into laughter again, and his men hastily joined in.

Outrage flushed the cheeks of the blood elf. Shock mingled with disbelief and his mouth flapped in an uncharacteristically undignified manner. “I will have you know I am _quite_ good friends with several _very_ important members of the Magisterium, including one Magistrix who I am certain would _not_ look kindly on you tarnishing her good name,” spoke the elf, with some heat, and raised his chin at a haughty angle.

“Tibrana, you mean? Oh yeah, she’s positively _dying_ to see you again,” guffawed the man, and the colour drained from the blood elf’s face as the bandits roared with laughter. “Well, don’t you worry my friend, we’ll soon have you safe and sound back where you belong,” he said, with a reassuring and yet doubtlessly sarcastic nod of the head. One of the ruffians behind him yelled something obscene, and the smile fell from the leader’s face. He turned and glared in the direction of the orc, who was swiftly silenced by his comrades in a wincingly painful manner.

“Still,” said the man, the unpleasant smile returning to his face, “what are friends for, eh?”

 

It all made sense now. The strange orders. The inexplicable location, miles from anywhere. The insistence that he was the only one capable of making the negotiations work. “I can’t trust anyone else,” the Magistrix had purred, her velvet tones rippling from the arcane orb, “you know how our… _allies_ can be. We need someone with your… _unique_ talents. The Magisterium will not be ungrateful for your assistance in this matter,” she had added in her sweet, spoilt voice. “Nor will I.”

The fight went out of the blood elf as the terrible truth sank in. But why? The two of them had always been on the best of terms. He assisted her with any errand no matter how menial and she had always spoken glowingly of his work. Why only a few weeks earlier she had even invited him to dine with her, where she had intimated to him that he was on the road to a bright and distinguished future with the Magisterium.

The blood elf hastily replayed the evening in his mind. Perhaps she had not taken the suggestion that she might wish to surrender the pressures of her position to a fresher, younger candidate so kindly after all. But he had gone to such trouble to make it clear that he held her in the highest regard, his offer born purely out of concern for her own comfort in her twilight years. After all, the Magistrix was a charismatic and charming leader, her advanced age barely visible beneath the numerous elegant glamour enchantments that only a sharp eye would ever notice - as he had assured her. She did an excellent job of hiding her failing memory, and the occasional lapse in judgement was more than made up for by the sympathy she inspired in her loyal subjects, something that he had stressed was in _abundant_ supply. Her people loved her all the more for her little quirks, and even with her beauty fading she was still a very attractive older lady.

Perhaps she had misunderstood him.

Oh dear.

 

Reluctantly, the blood elf returned his attention to the unpleasant present situation. The tall man was talking to the other envoys. “…and she promised an extra twenty thousand gold pieces if we bring his head back for her to shrink!” The lackeys roared with laughter again, and for a moment the blood elf considered the unthinkable: escape. But while the majority of the ruffians were distracted by their leader’s boasting, the guards holding them prisoner were paying ample attention. Seeming to sense the elf’s intentions, the scarred orc with his grip on the Orgrimmar envoy’s head glared across at him and let out a low growl. The blood elf swallowed and quickly abandoned any thoughts of escape. They were doomed.

“And you, little miss ‘Talks-Like-The-Wind’,” laughed the man, pointing a knife at the tauren where she stood, fuming between his two lackeys, “There are more than a few who will be glad to have their confidential details tended by someone who doesn’t spew out secrets like a goblin with a debtor’s knife at his throat! If they wanted every man, woman and kobold between here and Northrend knowing their secrets, they’d put them on the side of a bloody zeppelin like everybody else!”

The tauren, for once, was silent, but this didn’t seem to dampen the man’s mood.

“As for you,” he said, turning and walking toward the orc where she knelt in the dirt. “I don’t even want to _know_ what you’ve been up to. But whatever it is, your boss-man sure don’t like it. Paid us extra to bring your corpse back to put on display for all to see. Make an example of you, like,” he shook his head sadly, and crouched down in front of her, his face inches from hers. “Have you been a naughty girl?”

Suddenly the orc lunged forward, her sharp teeth snapping inches from the face of the leader, who recoiled just in time. Her struggles were swiftly halted by her captor, who regained his grip and yanked harshly on her short hair. Her head was pulled up and tilted back, sharp blades hovering over her exposed throat. She quickly stopped struggling, but her eyes gazed unblinkingly forward, blazing with hatred.

The man - who had, the elf noted with a hint of satisfaction, fallen back into the dirt when the orc lunged at him - clambered back to his feet dusting his hands, and glared at the scarred orc standing over her. The bandit met his leader’s gaze without word, but the elf noticed his fist tighten in his captive’s hair.

“No,” said the man, straightening his clothes and turning to the blood elf, “We don’t need your ransom. You see - you’ve done our work for us. Abusing your rank and privilege. Biting the hand that feeds you. Doing nasty things with people you shouldn’t have. Blabbing to every miserable wretch who comes within ear shot.

“No-one’s going to shed a tear for your useless corpses, never mind send anyone looking. No-one’s going to care when your ugly, bloated bodies come floating down past the gates of Orgrimmar. Ransom? You’re lucky they didn’t string you up years ago!”

Swaggering toward the tauren, the human pulled a cocky grin. “You should be _thanking_ us. We’re the only ones who’ll have you!”

As the bandits roared with laughter, indignation stirred in the blood elf’s finely attired chest. “This will not stand!” he heard himself cry out in a shrill voice - and immediately regretted it.

The man paused, and the grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a strange smile. He turned and began walking slowly back toward the blood elf, his head tilted slightly to one side, the knife dangling casually in his hand. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you? You and your poncey ‘Magisterium’.” His voice rose mockingly, and the crowd behind him jeered. “You pathetic little civil servants, scurrying around with your quests and orders,” he sneered, “You really think you _matter_? You think they give a shit about you scum? Running errands for _the mighty Horde_ ,” his voice feigned fear and his lackeys laughed loudly in response.

By this point he had reached the elf, and he slowly raised his knife to his captive’s throat. The smile was gone from his face now, and his hateful gaze met the elf’s widened eyes.

“I’m _shaking_ ,” he said.

 

But as his knife moved toward the blood elf’s throat, over the man’s shoulder a figure appeared. The elf’s eyes flared wide.

Into the air behind the man soared the shadowy figure of Rot-Tongue, his eyes wild, the decaying appendage for which he was named dangling sickeningly from his broken jaw. In his hands were two huge daggers, from which a luminous green venom dripped. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and the blood elf watched in horror as the Forsaken came crashing down upon his oblivious target, using his momentum to drive the long daggers deep into his victim’s neck. The man's head reared back, roaring in pain as the blades sank into his flesh, the venom hissing and sizzling where it met the skin.

At the same moment cries went up from the group around the kneeling orc, as with a flurry of blades the troll envoy appeared seemingly from nowhere, his eyes narrowing as he drove his weapons into the backs and bellies of the outlaws. As his cohorts cried out in pain, the scarred orc turned, his hand reaching for the stolen axe across his back. His attention strayed only for a moment from the captive kneeling before him, but that was all she needed.

From some hiding place in her armour a hand axe appeared, its blade short, wide and razor sharp. As her captor’s grip momentarily loosened, in one fluid motion she span, breaking from his grip and rising up to sink the axe into the scarred orc’s side. The orc bellowed as blood sprayed out, splashing across his attacker’s face. The blood elf flinched, but she only laughed. The axe swiftly rose and fell again, and the scarred orc fell down, dark red blood spurting from his neck.

Suddenly the elf felt himself flung backwards, as the two orcs holding him rushed forward to deal with Rot-Tongue, who was now on the ground, bending over his victim. The man was on his knees, his face frozen in a rictus of agony, the luminous blades still buried deep in his flesh. As the guards rushed forward, the Forsaken looked up, and from his hand flew some kind of powder. The air filled with brownish dust, and the two guards cried out in pain, clutching at their eyes. Their shapes disappeared into a dense dusty haze, but their cries were soon silenced.

 

As the cries of pain slowly died away, a strange, strained silence descended on the company. Half the bandits lay dead on the ground, and the others stood dumb, their weapons not even drawn: the attack had been swift and startling, and now their leaders were dead. Her guards dumbfounded, the tauren stomped furiously on the foot of the one orc still holding her and ran across to the others. No-one tried to stop her.

Replacing her hand axe, the orc bent slowly down and recovered the weapon that had been stolen from her - a huge two handed war axe, taller than many of the orcs there. The remaining bandits murmured and some began to back away surreptitiously. They hadn’t been paid for a battle - only an ambush. And this was shaping up to be a lot more than that.

A broad grin broke out on the orc’s face as she straightened and hefted her weapon. At her side the troll crouched, wiping his blades, his face deadly calm.

With a terrifying look of delight in her eyes, the orc took aim at the largest bunch, and charged.

 

From his place in the grass, the elf watched the carnage unfold. Pressing himself flat to the ground, he crawled slowly toward where his silk chair lay on its side, and promptly climbed beneath it.

 

 

 

When the sounds of battle had died out, the blood elf dared to peer out from behind his makeshift silk screen. The fabric was torn and stained with blood, but it was a preferable sight to the one that now lay before him. He swallowed nauseously and let his head fall back into the grass.

Crouched over the leader’s corpse, Rot-Tongue gorged himself on the tall man’s remains, his bottomless jaw slavering as he dug and rooted for choice pieces among the broken bone and entrails. Behind him lay a field of carnage, the bodies of the bandits spread far and wide. Most were clumped near the road, but a few were farther afield, fallen face first into the grass, daggers protruding from their backs. The troll moved silently amongst them, recovering his weapons and rifling through the corpses.

From across the road the tauren watched the Forsaken as he feasted, her face aghast but her eyes seemingly unable to look away. The orc was cleaning the blood from her axe with a handful of grass, preparing to depart.

Devouring a final morsel, the Forsaken stood up, apparently sated for the time being. He appeared to have had his pick of the field; a number of the corpses nearest him lay bloodied and incomplete, discarded parts scattered around them like wrapping paper.

As the sickening noises came to an end, the blood elf peered up and quickly scanned the scene.

Raising himself from the grass, he attempted to smooth down his robes. “W-Well done everybody!” he said, stepping nervously forward, and smiling a practised but shaky smile. When he had been chosen to represent the kingdom in its trade negotiations, he had never thought he would be working alongside bloodthirsty adventurers.

No-one replied. The orc simply grunted, while the tauren continued to stare at the Forsaken, speechless.

The elf flashed his best smile, a smile that spoke of his benign approval of the proceedings, while still reserving the right to make constructive suggestions as to how better to handle things next time. “I think we handled that very well, all things considered.”

Again, silence. The elf coughed and decided to take a different approach.

“So, where shall we go now? Perhaps we could repair to a local tavern to discuss our next steps.” The blood elf paused, his smile faltering. “We certainly can’t go back to our posts.”

The orc had finished cleaning her weapon and straightened. Her face wore a look of grim satisfaction, but her eyes still smouldered. “ _I_ ,” she said proudly, and the elf realised suddenly it was the first time he had heard her speak, “have no interest in _hiding_ , like some _dung beetle_ , while a man who lacks the courage to kill me himself still draws breath.” Her fierce gaze bored into the elf’s eyes, and he smiled nervously. “ _I_ will not rest until his skull is a nest to the crows, and his ears playthings for the orphans in the street,” she spat.

The blood elf smiled diplomatically, and nodded approvingly until the orc turned away. “Yes, well I think we can all agree that sounds like an… excellent, plan,” he ended lamely. The tauren glared at him, then turned to the orc.

The tauren stepped closer and said something in a low voice. The orc paused, then grunted and produced something from her boot. The elf squinted in the dying light. An orb of some sort. The orc pointed it forward and a blue-rimmed portal tore into existence. The dusky grassland was suddenly illuminated by the flickering torchlight of a bustling tavern, the chatter of a dozen voices bursting forth into the funereal silence, drunken and merry.

Without a word, the orc stepped through the blazing portal. The tauren hurried after her.

“I say,” said the elf, stepping hastily forward. With a pop, the portal winked out, the warm light vanishing, and a gloomy silence returned to the grasslands.

For a moment the blood elf stood frozen, his hand still outstretched toward the empty space where the portal had stood. Then his smile and his hand slowly fell, and his mouth closed. He swallowed.

“Well,” said the elf, rallying hastily, “How about you, Master Troll?” He turned to his right, to where the troll had been searching the corpses in the long grass. The grasslands were empty. The troll was already long gone, nowhere to be seen. The grass swayed silently in the gathering darkness.

The elf blinked, and turned to the Forsaken, who was crouched nearby, wiping his face on the clothes of a half-eaten orc. With admirable reserve, he quickly resumed the practised smile for a third time.

“Well then,” he said, affecting a cheery and amicable air, “I guess that just leaves the two of us!” Rot-Tongue stared back at him, unspeaking. The blood elf hesitated, and fumbled for an ice breaker.

“One thing I did wonder,” he said uncertainly, “Who sent _you_ here? And, well… why?” The Forsaken stared back at the blood elf, his dead eyes still and unblinking. “I mean,” the elf stammered, “W-We’re all friends here, I would… never…” The Forsaken’s grotesque tongue rose to lick his decaying lip, and the elf’s voice faltered. He looked around at the miles of empty grassland surrounding them, rapidly darkening into night, and swallowed. “No matter,” he conceded.

The Forsaken abruptly turned away, and began to gather his things. “Perhaps we could… travel together?” stammered the elf, hardly believing his own words. For one thing the Forsaken stank worse than the tauren, and for another he wasn’t entirely sure Rot-Tongue wasn’t planning on eating him.

Without turning, the Forsaken spoke. “An’ hot… uld you av to ovver, i’ retur?” he lisped. A cold sweat came over the elf. His mind raced, quickly considering and discarding the possibilities. He knew the Forsaken cared little for gold, and no doubt he cared even less for the finer things with which the elf was so well acquainted. Companionship? The Forsaken had even less desire for that than for gold. Supplies? He looked nauseously down at the remains of the orc lying in the blood-soaked grass, and decided not to suggest the idea. Interior decoration? The finer points of mana thistle harvesting? Advice on personal odour management?

Suddenly, his mind cleared. “A job,” he said.

The Forsaken stopped his motions, and with a hideous series of cracking noises twisted his spine around to face the elf, who tried his best not to wince. “A jhov?” he repeated, his tongue dripping, his eyes dead and still.

For all the unpleasantness of the day, the blood elf felt a familiar sense of satisfied calm settle over him. Straightening his posture, the elf took a slow breath, and for the first time since he had left Orgrimmar three weeks ago, smiled a genuine smile. “Have you ever tasted… Magistrix?”


End file.
